


People Are Strange

by HoodedAndromeda



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, Abuse, Anger, Angst, Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Backstory, Blood and Gore, Broken Families, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Depression, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Baggage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Family Drama, Feels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Isolation, Murder, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Period Piece, Period Specific Language, Period Specific References, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Slow Build, Slow Build Violence, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Violence, Strained Relationships, Stress, Violence, takes place before canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoodedAndromeda/pseuds/HoodedAndromeda
Summary: This was not how they had envisioned their lives—desperate and starving, turning to killing and eating others to survive. They never asked for this. They did what they could to persevere through the seemingly unending hardships, but the Sawyers didn’t have the tools to cope with the hand they’d been dealt. They never stood a chance.Set between 1964-1970.Functions as a prequel to The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.
Relationships: Grandma Sawyer/Grandpa Sawyer (Texas Chainsaw Massacre), Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Robert "Chop Top" Sawyer/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	1. A Hard Day’s Night (1964)

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a heavy work, with a lot of angst, era-specific prejudice (specifically against those with disabilities and mental illnesses), and, of course, violence. Please read the tags before reading the story.  
> With all that said, I hope you guys enjoy! I'm still in the process of writing this, but I've been researching and planning it for nearly ten months. I'm excited to take you all on this journey with me!!!

“H-he-hey, Bubba! O-over here!” Bubba peered over the crowd of sweat-drenched, blood-flecked men fighting their way to the slaughterhouse exit. He could see Nubbins near the door, standing on his tiptoes and waving his arms. His palms were stained pink—Bubba would have to make sure he rinsed his hands under the hose before coming into the house. He glanced down at his own palms, which he had scrubbed clean in the bathroom. As usual, there hadn’t been any soap, but the water had done its job well enough. Only his fingernails were still dirty.

Bubba maneuvered through the swarm, holding his arms stiffly at his sides to avoid accidentally shoving anybody. As he moved past his coworkers, he made brief eye-contact with Luis Garcia. Garcia worked on the killing floor with him and was nice enough. Like most of the men who worked there, he was a lot older than Bubba, probably old enough to be his father. Hardly anyone else there had started at sixteen the way he and Nubbins had. Usually, they arrived after they finished high school—but Bubba had been working at the slaughterhouse a year now, while Nubbins had three under his belt.

Most days, Bubba wished he could have a different job. He often thought that if he had learned to read, then maybe he could’ve talked Grandpa into letting him work somewhere else. You didn’t need to know how to read to work at the slaughterhouse. It was hard enough having to kill cows—looking into their big, brown eyes and bringing the sledge down on their fuzzy heads. Bubba knew how meat was made, and that people needed meat, but he’d rather eat a hamburger without thinking about how it got onto his plate. But what was even worse than killing animals was how cruel his coworkers could be to him.

He didn’t like the idea of working at the station, either, but he thought that he might do alright if Drayton let him stay in the back and stock shelves or help cook the barbecue. What Bubba _really_ wanted was to stay home and help Grandma and Grandpa take care of the house and look after the pigs and chickens. His second choice would be making bread and cakes for the bakery in Vernon White’s grocery store. But Grandpa said that he was too big and strong to not work on the killing floor.

Garcia shot Bubba a tight smile as he passed by, which he returned with a shy wave before promptly walking into Jack Brooks. Bubba shuffled away as quickly as he could, hoping to escape before Brooks could turn around and see him.

“Sawyer!” Bubba winced at the sound of Brooks’s dry voice, “Don’t fuckin’ walk away from me, ya fat load’a hogshit!” He continued to push forward. He was almost at Nubbins now.

“Lessgo,” Nubbins said when Bubba finally reached him, “I, uh, see—see Bobby’s tr-truck.” He guided Bubba in front of him and out the door as Brooks continued to shout after them. They hurried across the dirt parking lot and towards the silvery-blue pickup truck parked a few yards away. The windows were rolled down and Bubba could hear the faint thump of music from the radio. He chewed his lip, trying to ignore the sound of footsteps pounding after them. They were within ten feet of Bobby’s truck when someone pushed Bubba. He stumbled.

“Hey, dickhead,” Brooks rasped, “you listen ta me when I’m talkin’ ta ya!” He grabbed Bubba’s arm and pulled roughly, forcing him to turn around. Brooks stood between Wayne Butler and Bert Gray. The three of them were on the hook and pull gang, and not a day went by where they didn’t go out of their way to make him miserable. They had all started working at the slaughterhouse just before Grandpa quit, around the same time Cliff Adler took over the place from his father. Bubba stared down at Brooks’s feet rather than at his thin, red face. Wet spots on his shoes left by blood and water on the slaughterhouse floor had become caked in dust from the parking lot, turning the ratty sneakers a muddy grey color.

“C’mon, Bubba,” Nubbins took hold of his wrist and tried to pull him along. Brooks spat a thick wad of brown saliva onto the ground.

“Gon’ have yer lun’tic _s-s-s-stutterin’_ brother protect ya, huh? Can’t e’en face me like a man, can ya?” Butler and Gray snickered.

“F-fu—fuck off, Brooks,” Nubbins growled.

“Or what?” Brooks sneered. He pushed his thin blonde hair back from his damp forehead and moved closer to Bubba, who took a step backwards. “Or what? You gon’ bite me? Like the mangy li’l weasel ya are?”

“Hey, Brooks!” Bubba looked over his shoulder to see Bobby making his way over to them. He looked like he meant business. His hands were curled into fists, his hair was tied back, and he was wearing his sunglasses—the black ones. If he got into a fight with Brooks, it would be hard to get a get ahold of his hair. It would be harder to tell where he was looking. Bubba knew that Brooks wouldn’t want to fight Bobby, since he was bigger and probably faster and stronger, too—plus, it was three-on-three now.

“You startin’ shit?” Bobby shouldered his way between his brothers, standing in front of them with his arms crossed. Brooks’s splotchy cheeks grew redder and his watery eyes narrowed. He spat again.

“Yer retard brother ain’t got no manners.” Bubba shrank back, twisting the hem of his shirt in his hands. No one had ever told him what “retard” actually meant, but he’d been called it enough times to know it was bad.

“I know ya didn’t jus’ say what I think ya said,” Bobby hissed. He stepped closer to Brooks, who stumbled over his own feet as he backed up. “Wanna run that by me again?” Brooks puffed out his cheeks, his eyes darting between the three brothers.

“He better watch ‘imself s’all I’m sayin’.” Bobby drummed his fingers against his bicep.

“I’m givin’ you the same fuckin’ warnin’, _Jackoff._ ” Brooks bristled. Nubbins had been the first one to start saying “Jackoff Brooks” rather than “Jack Brooks,” at least as far as Bubba knew. It usually made him shut up… for a little while. Without another word, Brooks stormed off towards his own pickup truck, Gray and Butler hot on his heels.

“Bitch hog,” Bobby grumbled, taking off his sunglasses and wiping the lenses on his shirt. He put them back on with a sigh. “Lessgo.” Nubbins kept pace with his twin, while Bubba walked just behind them.

“I c-coulda taken’ ‘em,” Nubbins declared, pushing his oily hair behind his ears.

“What, three ta one?”

“I g-got my knife!” He said defensively. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to point at Bubba. “An’ B-Bu-Bubba was there, t-too.” Bobby waved his comment off.

“He ain’t gonna fight anybody,” he looked over his shoulder, “are ya, Bubba?” He shook his head hard.

“Nuh-uh!” Bubba knew he was big, a lot bigger than most of the people he knew. He’d probably do okay in a fight. But the idea of hurting someone on purpose—or worse, getting hurt—upset him. He hoped to go his whole life without fighting.

“Y’see? An’ I betcha they got knives, too, all three’a ‘em,” Bobby said, letting his hair down and slipping the faded grey hairtie over his wrist. He shook his head a few times until his dark waves fell into place just how he liked them.

“Betcha they d-don’t,” Nubbins shot back. The three of them paused beside the truck. Bobby leaned against the passenger side door and looked at his twin over the tops of his shades.

“A’ight,” he hummed, “next time I see ‘em fuckin’ with ya, I won’t do a thing. You jus’ pull yer knife an’ see what happens.” Nubbins blew a raspberry and shoved Bobby as he burst into giggles. The three of them piled into the truck, the twins climbing into the cab while Bubba pulled himself into the bed. He sat on a pile of colorful blankets and leaned his back against the exterior of the cab.

He didn’t mind sitting in the back. He had been too big to squeeze in with his brothers, even back when he was fourteen, when Bobby first got his truck. And Bubba liked the view from sitting in the bed. He could see everything so clearly when dust wasn’t being kicked up by the tires. His favorite was when they went for night drives and he could look at the stars. Plus, Bobby always opened the slider window and turned up the music loud enough that he could hear it. A song about holding hands was playing now.

“Leigh says C.J. says th-there’s s’posed ta be a-a-a, uh, good movie comin’ out next week,” Nubbins said. Leigh Campbell and Nubbins butchered together. Sometimes he and the twins would go see movies with another friend named C.J., who Bubba had never met. The twins invited him along sometimes, and although he liked the idea of going to see a movie in the theater, he didn’t like the idea of sitting in the dark with a bunch of strangers.

“What movie?” Nubbins thought for a moment.

“D-don’t remember what it’s c-ca-called anymore.” He scratched his cheek. “Somethin’ ‘bout, uh, moths, I think?” Bobby said nothing else, instead cranking up the radio and driving off the slaughterhouse property.

The days were getting shorter, though the air was still heavy with summer heat. The sky was starting to turn lilac by five. Sunset was still more than an hour away, but the clouds were already tinged with pink. This was Bubba’s favorite part of the week—driving home on a Friday evening, looking up at the sky and listening to music, knowing he didn’t have to be at work for two whole days. He let his mind wander.

He wondered what Grandma was making for dinner. More importantly, he wondered how Grandma was feeling. Back around the tail-end of spring, she’d started getting headaches. At first, they didn't last long. But now she felt faint whenever she stood up, and her head throbbed off and on throughout the day.

Bubba, his brothers, and Grandpa had all grown accustomed to standing up at the same time as Grandma whenever they were close enough to grab her arm. She’d only fallen twice, but that was two times too many. Grandma always scolded them for standing with her, saying that she wasn’t a baby and could get up on her own. That didn’t stop them, though, especially not Grandpa.

It wasn’t long before they reached the gas station. It was a short drive from the slaughterhouse, but a long walk. Harry Taylor was sitting out front. He almost looked like he was sleeping, with his head resting against the Coke machine and his shoulders slumped. Mister Taylor had been working at the station since before it was Drayton’s. He mostly stayed inside, but he always took over pumping gas once Bobby left for the day.

Bubba waved to Mister Taylor as they passed, and he waved back. So, he wasn’t asleep—probably just bored. Bobby had said before that he liked being out front on busy days, when there were plenty of people to talk to and he had lots of opportunities to get up and walk around. But on slow days, when he was just sitting in the sun from eight to five, it was hard to stay awake. It didn’t help that Drayton didn’t want him inside unless he had a good reason—and according to Drayton, being hot or bored were not good reasons.

Finally, Bobby turned onto their property. He parked in front of the house, turned the radio down and off, and took the key out of the ignition. All three brothers climbed out of the truck. Bobby was still humming the last song that they’d heard, the one about houses and the sun. Bubba tapped Nubbins’s shoulder before he climbed the porch steps. He turned to face him.

“What’s up?” Bubba touched his wrist.

“ _Your hands,_ ” he said, gently turning Nubbins’s hand over to expose his pinkish-orange palm.

“Oh yeah, uh, th-thanks.” He gave him a crooked grin, then bounded over to the spigot. Bubba followed Bobby up the steps and into the front door, which had been left open for them. Grandma unlocked the door at five o’clock Monday through Thursday, and at six on Saturdays. It was Drayton’s job to lock it behind him when he got home. Grandma was the only one who cared about whether or not the door was locked. Grandpa said they knew everyone in Newt, and they didn’t need to shut anyone out. Grandma disagreed.

“We’re home!” Bobby announced, pushing his sunglasses up to the top of his head, walking out of the foyer and into the living room with Bubba trailing after him.

“Kitchen!” Grandma’s voice sounded strong as ever—no one would ever guess she hadn’t been feeling well just by listening to her. Bubba heard the front door slam followed by the sound of Nubbins’s feet slapping against the floor as he ran to catch up with his brothers. The three of them passed through the dining room and into the kitchen at the same time, though Nubbins arrived slightly out of breath.

Grandma stood over the stove, pushing vegetables around a pan with a wooden spatula. Her long hair was tied up in a bun, but a few wiry blonde and white strands had come loose and fell around her face. Grandpa sat on a wooden stool in the furthest corner of the kitchen. He had a newspaper folded on his lap and was watching Grandma closely, shoulders tensed, his hands braced on his knees. He looked like he was ready to jump to his feet at any moment. Grandma glanced up at the three brothers standing in the entryway.

“Well, c’mere.” She waved the boys over, and one by one they came up to her, said hello, and kissed her cheek. Once Grandma had been properly greeted, they said hello to Grandpa, too, though Bubba was the only one to kiss his cheek. The twins leaned back against the counter island while Bubba hovered by the stove. He watched Grandma turn green beans and onions over in the frying pan. They smelled like they had been cooked in butter, garlic, and red pepper flakes.

“How was work?” Grandma directed her question at the vegetables. Before any of them could reply, she asked another question. “Didja wear yer sunglasses, Bobby?”

“All day, Gramma,” he answered.

“I don’t wantcha gettin’ cataracts, sittin’ out there lookin’ up at the sun all day.”

“I don’t look at it if I don’t hafta.”

“Didja tie up yer hair? I know ya like it long, but yer gonna get heatstroke one’a these days.”

“If he gets heatstroke, that’s on ‘im,” Grandpa interjected, “the boy’s nineteen, Addie, if he gets sick o’er somethin’ silly ‘s long hair, that’s ‘is own fault.” Bobby rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched in a suppressed smile.

“Y’don’t tell me ta tie up m-my h-ha-hair,” Nubbins said. Grandpa shrugged.

“It ain’t as long.” 

“You’re inside all day, y’don’t gotta worry ‘bout bein’ too hot.” Grandma paused, turning around to face the twins. “But I do wish you’d wash it more,” she said thoughtfully, reaching out and tucking a few stringy locks behind Nubbins’s ear, “you’re too handsome ta not be keepin’ up yer appearance.” She patted his cheek. He shrugged and looked away as Grandma returned to her vegetables.

“I kept it up ‘til I got Nubbins ‘n Bubba,” Bobby finally answered Grandma’s question.

“Good. I still think Drayton oughtta keep you inside when no one’s buyin’ gas.” Bobby began twisting a wooden ring around his finger.

“I don’t mind bein’ outside most’a the time. ‘sides, ‘s better me ‘n him don’t spend all day right on top’a each other.” Grandma clicked her tongue.

“I don’t like you talkin’ that way. Y’all’re brothers. ‘bout time ya acted like it.” Bobby stayed quiet, shoving his hands in his pockets, and staring down at the cracked tile floor. His mouth was a tight line. Grandma looked up at Bubba.

“How ‘bout you, Baby? How was work?”

“ _It was okay,_ ” He mumbled, twisting the hem of his shirt in his hands. He had yet to report a good day at work to Grandma.

“Jackoff Brooks w-was givin’ ‘im a hard t-ti-time again,” Nubbins said. He had never once told Grandma and Grandpa that Brooks was mean to him, too, even though he got it almost as bad as Bubba did. Grandma slammed the wooden spatula down on the countertop, sending a little piece of green bean flying across the room. She whipped around to face the twins again.

“You _know_ I don’t like ya talkin’ like that!”

“He deserves it,” Bobby spat, “the guy’s a dick.”

“ _Robert Sawyer,_ ” Grandma said sternly. He put his hands up in a hasty gesture of surrender.

“I’m jus’ sayin’, you should hear the stuff he says ta Bubba.”

“He ain’t a baby,” Grandpa spoke up again, “the three’a ya ferget he’ll be eighteen come March.” Grandma looked back at Bubba with worried blue eyes.

“Is it really that bad, Punkin?” He shrugged, declining to give an answer. The truth was, Brooks scared him. So did Butler and Gray. They told him all the time that one day they’d _really_ hurt him, and he believed it. As soon as no one was around to stop them, they’d make good on their promise to string him up like the pigs. Grandpa grunted.

“If he’s anythin’ like ‘is daddy, I ain’t surprised he’s an asshole.”

“John,” Grandma sounded exasperated, “enough with the cussin’, please, all’a y’all.” Grandpa stood up slowly, wincing a little as he did so.

“There weren’t a day Jack Brooks Senior didn’t come ta work juiced up,” he continued, making his way across the kitchen, “meanest sonuvabitch I e’er met.” Grandma didn’t interject this time, having apparently given up on her crusade against swearing for the time being. Grandpa stopped in front of Bubba. “But y’know whatcha gotta do ta get back at an alkie like Brooks?” He shook his head.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Ya gotta grow a thicker skin.” That was the only advice Grandpa ever had for him. Bubba knew he meant well, and Grandpa always said it in a way that wasn’t mean, but it was hard advice to follow. He couldn’t just stop being afraid of Brooks. He wasn’t like Bobby or Nubbins or even Drayton—he couldn’t fight back. Even if he wanted to, he simply didn’t know how. When someone bothered him, all he wanted to do was disappear.

“John!” Grandma’s voice creaked in surprise.

“All I’m sayin’ ‘s Bubba could crush Brooks’s li’l bird skull with one hand if he wanted. Brooks should be scared’a _him_ , not the other way ‘round.” Bubba wrinkled his nose in disgust. Grandpa was probably right. He could probably knock over Brooks with ease. But then what? He didn’t know how to fight and crushing someone’s head sounded messy. Breaking an animal’s skull with a sledgehammer was gross enough. Doing that to a person sounded like a nightmare.

“He’s got me ‘n Nubbins,” Bobby said firmly, “Bubba don’t need ta fight so long’s he’s got us.”

“He won’t always.” Grandpa clapped Bubba on the shoulder. “Dinner almost ready, Addie?” Grandma looked at the egg timer, then turned off the stovetop and began scraping the beans and onions into a serving bowl.

“Any second now. Drayton better be home ‘fore long, I don’t like startin’ without ‘im.” She shook her head. “Why don’t he let Harry close up?” Grandma looked to Bobby for an answer, but he had none.

“If I weren’t pickin’ up the two’a ‘em, he’d want me ta stay later, too, y’know.” Grandma tutted.

“Eight ta five ‘s long enough fer you ta be out in that sun.” She handed each twin a couple of plates, cutlery, and cups. “Go set the table.”

“Yes’m,” they said in unison before making their way into the dining room. Grandpa followed. Once they were gone, Grandma took Bubba’s hand and gently squeezed it.

“Is Jack Junior really that bad?” She asked quietly. Bubba picked at a piece of dead skin on his lip with his free hand. His eyes darted all over the kitchen as he avoided meeting her pale gaze. Ever since her head started bothering her, he had stopped telling her when anything bad happened. He didn’t want to make her worry—when he was worried, sometimes it gave him a headache, and he didn’t want to accidentally make Grandma’s headaches worse. But he didn’t want to lie to her, either, and it was obvious that he and the twins didn’t like Brooks, and they wouldn’t just dislike him for no reason.

Bobby had once said that Drayton didn’t like Brooks, either. Every time he came to get gas, he tried to pay less than he owed and would pitch a fit when he got called out for it. Bubba didn’t know for sure if Brooks was as mean to Bobby and Drayton as he was to him and Nubbins, but he guessed he probably was.

Bubba shook his head.

“Nuh-uh,” he said weakly. The egg timer went off. Grandma looked at him hard, like she knew he wasn’t telling the truth, but she didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, she sighed and pulled a tray out of sausages baked inside of rolls out of the oven.

“Take the water pitcher an’ the string beans ta the table, please,” she said, “I’ll bring out the pigs’n a blanket in a minute.” Bubba did as he was told, carrying the serving bowl and ceramic jug of water out into the dining room. As he set them in the center of the table, he heard the front door open and shut. He took his seat between Bobby and Grandpa and began fidgeting with his fork.

“Drayton,” Grandma called from the kitchen, “that you?”

“Yes!”

“We’re sittin’ down fer dinner!” Grandpa announced roughly. Drayton shuffled into the dining room, looking hot and tired. His forehead was shiny, his cheeks were pink, and his eyes looked about ten times darker than they had this morning. He was twenty-nine, and already the hair along his temples had turned grey. Grandma always said that the Sawyers aged gracefully, but Bubba couldn’t remember a time when Drayton hadn’t looked old. His face was always so hard and serious. Even in pictures from when he was little, back when Mamma was still alive, before Pa left, he looked like a very small grownup.

“I thought I was s’posed ta start cookin’ dinner,” Drayton said to Grandma as she carried the pigs in a blanket out of the kitchen.

“You ne’er come home soon enough ta do it,” she replied, setting the plate down beside the bowl of vegetables. Her voice was bright, like she didn’t really mind the fact that Drayton came home too late to make dinner. Everyone knew he could cook as well as Grandma, but she hadn’t been too excited when he offered to take over mealtimes. He’d practically begged her to let him do it after a particularly bad dizzy spell that had nearly caused her to bash her head on the countertop, and she’d agreed. But then she started making breakfast and dinner about an hour sooner than she used to.

“Dinner used ta be later,” he grumbled, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Siddown, please, Drayton,” Grandma said, taking her seat at the foot of the table. He muttered something under his breath but did as he was told, sitting between Grandpa and Nubbins. Grandma watched Drayton settle into his chair, then looked around the table, making brief eye-contact with each of her grandsons as well as her husband.

“Now, let’s eat, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one DONE! I hope you guys like this! I'll be updating as regularly as possible, but I am student teaching right now, so I don't have as much time to write as I would like. I'm excited to take this (very long) journey with you all!!!


	2. All Day and All of the Night

Drayton looked out the window to his left. He could see Bobby standing in the space partway between the Coke machine and the gas pumps, his back to the station and his hands on his hips. Vernon White stood just in front of him, cradling several bundles wrapped in brown butcher paper in his arms. He was smiling, and he reached out and patted Bobby’s shoulder before walking past him and up to the station door. Drayton craned his neck, looking for Vern's car, but he couldn’t see it. Apparently, he wasn’t in need of gas today, but that was just as well. The fuel transport hadn’t come yesterday—in fact, it had been arriving a day or two later than promised all summer.

“G’mornin’, Drayton,” Vernon said cheerfully. Drayton hadn’t even heard him come in—Vern always entered rooms quietly, opening doors with an almost absurd level of gentleness. He stepped up to the counter.

“Mornin’,” Drayton replied, “whatcha got fer me?”

“Pork, mainly.” Vernon carefully laid the packages out on the counter beside the cash register. “S’pose it’s been ‘n alright year fer pigs.” Drayton nodded slightly, picking up each paper-wrapped parcel and testing its weight in his hand. There were ten packages, he guessed each one weighed a little more than a pound.

“Wha’ do I owe ya?” Vernon tilted his head back, screwing up his hazel eyes as he looked into the light fixture on the ceiling. His lips moved silently as he counted out the amount on his fingertips. He exhaled loudly once he came to a number, looking at Drayton head-on again.

“We’ll say six-fifty?” Drayton winced involuntarily, hissing under his breath. He had been suspicious for quite some time that Vernon had been giving him reduced prices for meat, though it still seemed to be getting more and more expensive by the day.

“If you wanna go lo—”

“Ah!” Drayton cut him off, throwing up his hands. “No,” he said sharply, “full price.” He could tell that Vernon wanted to argue, but he simply sucked in a breath through his teeth and ran a hand through his straw-colored hair.

“Six-fifty it is, then.” Drayton opened the register and counted out six dollars and fifty cents into his palm. He dropped the money on the nicked wood surface of the counter and pushed it towards Vern, who folded the coins up in the bills and slipped them into his pocket.

“Thanks.” He paused. “How’s yer Gramma?” Drayton stiffened.

“She’s fine,” he answered roughly, looking past Vernon’s shoulder rather than at his face. He hadn’t said a word to anybody about Grandma’s health. He hadn’t even talked about it with his brothers. It was Vernon’s custom to ask after his family when he made his biweekly meat deliveries, but he rarely singled out any one member.

“An’ e’eryone else? How’re they?” Drayton cleared his throat.

“They’re fine,” he said again, more flatly this time. He wondered _why_ Vernon had specifically asked about Grandma. As far as he knew, he never went by the house. Grandma _did_ do most of the shopping, so they could’ve caught up when she was buying groceries from him, but she’d been insisting she was right as rain for weeks. Grandpa wouldn’t say anything to anyone, either.

It must’ve been one of his brothers. He probably wouldn’t be running into Nubbins or Bubba. Besides, Nubbins didn’t go around talking about personal matters and Bubba couldn’t tell anybody anything if he wanted to. That just left Bobby. Drayton hoped that this singling Grandma out business was just a coincidence. He’d consider it a breach of trust if Bobby had let it slip that Grandma had fallen down the stairs last night. That was private family business. Vernon tapped his fingertips against the edge of the counter.

“How ‘bout you, Drayton, how’re ya doin’?”

“Fine,” he said for the third time. “How’s Gail?” Gail was Vernon’s little girl—she was almost ten years old now. Drayton didn’t see her much. She was usually at school or with friends on the rare occasion he stopped by her father’s store. When he did see her, she was usually dusty and barefoot, running up and down the road with a pack of raggedy boys.

“She’s good!” Vernon straightened up a little, his eyes shimmering the way they always did when he talked about his daughter. “Growin’ up fast, real fast. She’s jus’ like ‘er mamma.” His wife, Shirley, had died nearly five years ago. Gail looked just like her—tall, with frizzy hair and the straightest, whitest teeth Drayton had ever seen. “She had… somethin’ of a run-in with Cliff Adler the other day, though.” Drayton clicked his tongue. Cliff was the sort of person you could _only_ have run-ins with. He wasn’t one for friendly conversations.

“What happened?” Vern sighed and shook his head.

“Weren’t nothin’ but kid stuff.” He scratched his ear. “She was havin’ a foot race with the Jones boy. Y’know Ronnie Jones?” Drayton nodded. He vaguely remembered seeing Ronald once or twice—a bulky boy with hair like a rats’ nest. “Well,” Vernon continued, “Gail ‘n Ronnie turned a blind corner an’ ran right smack inta Cliff.” He braced his hands against the counter, letting his head hang below his shoulders as he drew in a slow breath.

“Luis Garcia saw the whole thing from ‘cross the street. Said the kids ‘pologized more’n they needed ta. But Cliff—” he shook his head again, “well, Gail ‘n Ronnie were scared half ta death. Real glad Garcia brought ‘em back so’s I could hear it from the three’a ‘em ‘fore I heard it from him.”

“Cliff’s always thought he was real hot shit,” Drayton spat, “jus’ ‘cause his daddy owned the slaughterhouse. But you ne’er saw Mister Adler doin’ any’a the harebrained shit Cliff pulls.” Vernon nodded solemnly.

“Once Mister Adler kicks it, y’know Cliff’s gon’ go mechanized. ‘s a shame.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Better hope he don’t die anytime soon. Anyone who e’er so much ‘s looked at Cliff funny’s gon’ get sacked.” Drayton glanced out the window just as an unfamiliar Volkswagen Beetle pulled up to the pumps. He watched Bobby get up, then redirected his attention to Vernon.

“It was ‘cause’a Cliff Grampa quit. He coulda kept workin’ fer another ten years. Fifteen, maybe. Ne’er got tired’a sledgin’ those beeves. But Cliff broke ‘is spirit. It was all that talk ‘bout those guns that did it. Thank the good Lord Mister Adler put a stop ta that idea ‘fore it got off the ground, but he can’t hold Cliff off forever.”

“How long did he work fer Cliff?”  
“Six months, give or take. But he worked fer Mister Adler fer more’n thirty years.” Vernon whistled.

“Wonder how Mister Adler felt ‘bout ‘im leavin’.” Drayton shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.

“He tried changin’ Grampa’s mind when he first heard, but I guess he weren’t too broke up o’er it. Man’s got ‘is own life ta worry ‘bout. See—” he stopped. He had almost started to tell Vern about his suspicion that Mister Adler had given Cliff a hard time about Grandpa leaving, since Cliff seemed to have it out for Nubbins and Bubba. But then Vernon would ask Drayton exactly what he meant by that, and he didn’t care to elaborate. He had never witnessed Cliff being hard on his brothers himself, and Bubba was so sensitive that he was probably blowing the entire thing out of proportion. But even if he wasn’t, it didn’t really matter. So long as Mister Adler was alive, his brothers would be safe enough. If word ever got back to him that the Sawyer boys weren’t being treated right, he’d step in out of respect for Grandpa. Drayton was sure of that.

“…but, uh, anyhow,” he started again, “Cliff’s a goddamn menace. Sorry ‘bout ‘im an’ Gail. I hope someone knocks ‘im down a few pegs sooner rather’n later.”

“You ‘n me both,” Vernon said gravely. There was an awkward pause between them. He leaned forward, looking out the window beside Drayton. His gloomy expression gave way to an amused smile.

“Betcha the ladies give ‘im decent tips, huh?” Drayton blinked. That was a change in subject he hadn’t anticipated.

“Huh?” Vernon nodded towards the window.

“The boy gets ‘imself paid attention ta. Y’haven’t noticed?” Drayton looked out the window, now, too. The yellow bug that had pulled up was still parked beside the pumps. A girl leaned out the passenger side window, and a second girl stood by the driver side, presumably on her tiptoes, with her arms folded on the roof of the car. Bobby was standing with one hand braced against the hood. He had let his hair down and pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head.

“That li’l shit!” Bobby had always paid too much attention to women. Even when he was little, before he and Nubbins had been pulled from public school, most of his friends had been girls. When he started working at the station at thirteen, he wasted hours of work time mooning over the ladies who came by. Once he’d hit about sixteen, he’d started having some of the most nauseating conversations Drayton had ever had the displeasure of overhearing. And those girls ate it right up. He had thought he’d cuffed Bobby’s ears enough times to teach him to chase tail on his own damn time, but apparently, he was wrong. He stormed out from behind the counter, his face and neck hot and his jaw clenched tight. Before he could whip the front door open, Vernon grabbed his arm.

“C’mon,” he said gently, “leave ‘im be. He’s young!” Drayton clenched his fists and wrenched his arm free from Vernon’s hand.

“He c’n be _young_ off the clock,” he growled, “he oughtta be professional ‘n respectable at work, but he acts like a—like a—”

“Like a nineteen-year-old boy.”

“Like a pervert!” He raised an eyebrow.

“You tellin’ me you ne’er shucked yer responsibilities ta goof off with some girl?”

“Not once,” Drayton said, sucking in a harsh breath. And that was the truth. He couldn’t waste time thinking about dating. He had too much work to do, and on the rare occasion he had free time, he wanted to enjoy it alone. Vernon looked at Drayton with genuine surprise, then caught his arm once more as he made another move for the door.

“At least wait ‘til they’re gone, don’t embarrass ‘im.”

“ _He’s_ embarrassin’ _me._ ” Drayton pulled himself from Vern’s grasp again and flung the door open. It knocked against the wall and bounced back, slamming into his shoulder before slowly making its way back towards the wall.

“Bobby!” He looked up. Drayton could tell from his posture that he was rolling his eyes. “C’mere, now!” Bobby patted the hood of the car, then leisurely walked around its back. He pulled the nozzle from the tank, hung it back up, then screwed the gas cap back into place. He waved at the girls and they waved back. The girl who had been standing got back in the car. They drove off as Bobby trekked towards Drayton, tying his hair back up as he neared the station door.

“What?” He hadn’t put his sunglasses back on. He looked down at Drayton with icy eyes.

“Inside. Now.” Before Bobby had time to say anything else, Drayton grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him through the doorway.

“The fuck did I do now?” Bobby groaned, pushing Drayton off him.

“Yer bein’ a goddamn embarrassment!” He declared, shoving an accusatory finger in Bobby’s face, “would it fuckin’ kill ya ta act like a professional while yer on the job?” He narrowed his eyes.

“I dunno whatcher talkin’ ‘bout,” he said coolly, crossing his arms.

“I’m talkin’ bout those girls!” Bobby bent forward at the waist, so he was almost eye-level with Drayton.

“What about ‘em?” His expression didn’t change, but his voice had a smirking quality to it that rubbed Drayton the wrong way.

“Bobby,” Vernon said hurriedly, “what Drayton means is—” Drayton held out one hand, palm facing Vernon.

“Don’t tell ‘im what I mean,” Drayton snapped. He knew Vernon was only trying to bring them to a peaceful resolution—he had a soft heart and hated conflict. In the twenty-odd years he had known him, he’d never seen him fight with someone even once. But he wasn’t the one who had had to help raise Bobby for the past thirteen years. How Drayton chose to deal with his brother was none of Vern’s business.

“I _know_ what I mean,” Drayton hissed, “and what I _mean_ is you should be thinkin’ ‘bout doin’ good business ‘stead’a tryna getcher dick wet.” Bobby scoffed and straightened back up. His fists were clenched at his sides, but Drayton knew he wouldn’t hit him. Bobby had never been afraid of a fight, but he preferred to weaponize his words before he used his fists.

“I’m jus’ bein’ friendly,” he sneered, “somethin’ you oughtta try sometime.”

“You bitch hog!” Drayton grabbed a fistful of Bobby’s hair and pulled. Hard.

“Fuckin’ _OW!_ ” Bobby grabbed hold of Drayton’s wrist with one hand and his fingers with the other, trying to disentangle Drayton’s hand from his hair.

“Whoa, hey, now!” Vernon cried out, sounding panicked. Bobby managed to rip himself free, but Drayton still had several strands of long, dark hair clenched in his fist.

“Yer workin’ inside the rest’a taday an’ all day tomorrow,” He said firmly, opening his hand and letting the hairs drift down to the floor. Bobby sniffed, rubbing his nose with the heel of his hand.

“Y’really think that’s a good idea, _bro?_ ” He rasped, his mismatched eyes flashing dangerously. Drayton knew he had a point—keeping him inside for two straight days might turn out to be more of a punishment for him than for his brother. But he wasn’t going to back down now.

“Keep it up, an’ it’ll be all week,” he warned, “y’want that?” Bobby said nothing, instead pressing his palm against the spot where Drayton had pulled his hair. “Harry gets here in twenty minutes. When he shows, tell ‘im he’s workin’ the pumps taday. An’ I better see yer ass marchin’ in here the second you finish talkin’ ta him. Got it?” Bobby rolled his eyes and turned around, cussing under his breath as he made his way back outside.

“Y’don’t gotta handle ‘im like that, y’know,” Vernon said after Bobby slammed the door shut. Drayton huffed, turning around to face him.

“If y’think ya know how ta handle ‘im better’n I do, then by all means, fuckin’ take ‘im. You’ll be doin’ me a goddamn favor.”

“Y’don’t mean that,” Vern said, “he’s tough, yer right, but he’s a good kid. You e’er se the way he handles Brooks?” Drayton grimaced. Jack Brooks Junior was little more than a nuisance to him. The two of them had had more than their fair share of arguments about gas prices, but otherwise Drayton considered him mostly harmless. But Bobby seemed to have a much bigger bone to pick with Brooks. His brothers didn’t tell him much about their personal lives, which was fine with Drayton, but it had become obvious to him that Brooks made trouble for Bubba and Nubbins at work.

He’d never seen Brooks in the same space as them, and so had no idea how he really treated them. But Drayton had seen Bobby go after plenty of people who made the mistake of insulting either of them in his presence. He could imagine that Bobby would have no problem telling Brooks to go fuck himself.

“There ain’t a thing wrong ‘bout him chattin’ up those girls,” Vernon continued, “after all, it’s gettin’ ta be ‘bout time fer him ta strike out on ‘is own. Nubbins too, fer that matter.” Drayton snorted. He wouldn’t be surprised if Bobby did leave to start a family of his own within the next few years. But the idea of Nubbins being able to both get a girl’s attention _and_ hold on to her for any length of time was laughable. “Not ta mention he’s yer li’l brother. Y’shouldn’t be so hard on each other.” Drayton bristled. Now he was talking to him as if he was his father! Vernon was an only child parenting an only child—he didn’t know a thing about siblings. He didn’t have room to talk.

Drayton pushed past Vernon and gathered the bundles of pork on the counter up into his arms. He turned around and walked past Vern again, heading for the back room where he cooked his barbecue.

“Thanks fer the meat,” Drayton said gruffly, refusing to look at him, “I’ll see ya Thursday.”

“…see ya Thursday,” Vernon replied after a long pause. Drayton knew that he had only been trying to help, but he was starting to get real sick of Vernon’s well-intentioned advice. He felt like he was getting lectured every time he saw him. Drayton wished he would keep his comments to himself for once, and just let him have some damn peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two DONE! I hope you guys enjoyed! I think this one's slightly shorter than the first chapter? But the next one will be a lil bit heftier :) I'm aiming for ten to twenty pages per chapter. I'll see you with chapter three in the not-too-distant future!


	3. Oh, Pretty Woman

Bobby watched fat, blue-grey clouds drift across the lavender sky. They were pushed along by a gentle breeze which picked up every few minutes before succumbing to powerful bursts of end-of-summer heat. He sighed, leaning against the Coke machine. It had been yet another painfully boring day. Only Wayne Butler and Mateo Hernandez had stopped by on their way to the slaughterhouse. That had been hours ago. But at least he was outside.

Drayton had kept his promise to keep Bobby inside Tuesday and Wednesday, and had added Thursday to his sentence as well. A heated argument about how to spell “andouille sausage” had earned him an extra day trapped inside the station. At this point, he was just relieved he didn’t have to work tomorrow.

Grandma didn’t like him working Saturdays—if she could, she’d keep Drayton home all weekend long too, but that was a battle she’d lost a long, _long_ time ago. Bobby wouldn’t get to sleep in tomorrow morning, but once he finished his chores the day would be his. He had yet to decide how he’d spend his afternoon, but his night would be spent at the movies with Nubbins, Leigh, and C.J.. Bobby scratched at the scruff on his jaw, then checked his watch. Still forty-five minutes until he could leave.

Maybe he’d give Joy a call. He could stop by a payphone on his drive down to the slaughterhouse. It must’ve been more than a month since he’d last seen her. Actually, it was probably closer to two—the memory was sort of foggy. It had been an especially humid night, the kind of heat that made your skin sticky and your chest tight and your head heavy. Plus, she’d hotboxed his truck. But it had been more than six weeks, of that he was sure. It had been at least that long since he’d last snuck out. Sneaking out had gotten harder now that Grandma was sleeping so fitfully.

If Bobby decided he did want to see Joy, he could always tell Grandma that there had been a change of plans and they needed to leave a few hours early. He and Nubbins could drive out to Austin, and then he would drop him off at a photography store or a burger joint or something. They’d done that before. But dumping Nubbins someplace just so he could go off and get laid always felt like sort of a shitty thing to do, even if he insisted that he didn’t mind.

Shit, maybe he’d just use his free time to nap. It wasn’t like he was particularly attached to Joy. They’d started sleeping together after he and Suzanne had broken up—that would have to be a little over a year ago now. It was C.J.’s buddy Jimmy that had introduced him to Joy. They had fun, but neither of them were especially interested in letting their relationship go deeper than the occasional hook-up.

Joy was good to kill time with, but her definition of a good time was getting drunk and stoned at the same time. Bobby liked having a couple of beers now and then, but pot wasn’t really his thing. He knew plenty of people who insisted it was the best way to experience life, but every time he’d tried it all it had done was burn his chest and make it so he could barely string two thoughts together.

He didn’t think Joy would be bothered if they fell out of touch. After all, she hadn’t been making any effort to reach out to him, either. But Bobby was really starting to get restless. He was bored. And lonely. It would be nice to spend a little time with a girl. At least he was getting out this week, and for that, he was grateful. He hadn’t seen either Leigh or C.J. for a while. Work seemed to consume all their time lately. He supposed that was the price of growing up, though at nineteen he still didn’t feel like much of an adult.

Nubbins saw Leigh five days a week since they butchered together, and that was more than enough to keep him socially satisfied. Neither he nor Bubba were particularly concerned with hanging out with friends or going on dates. Nubbins did want to get out of the house, and often, but Bobby was pretty sure that Bubba would stay home all day every day if he could. He would go on drives with them when he was invited, but he never came along to meet friends, or see a movie, or eat at a restaurant (drive-throughs were an exception).

Well, more accurately, he _used_ to go on drives with them. It was into fall now, and he hadn’t joined them for a late-night drive to nowhere in particular at least since April or May. And Bobby knew it was because of Grandma. They were all worried about her—her tumble down the stairs Monday night had scared the shit out of everyone—but it seemed as though Bubba’s worries were eating him alive. Grandma loved all four of them; Bobby had never once felt like he was competing for her attention. But she and Bubba had always had an extra-special bond.

It was just like how it had been back when he was a little kid—Grandma used to call him her tail, since he was always clinging to the back of her skirt. When her dizzy spells had started, Bubba began hovering around Grandma again. When he was home, he was rarely more than an arm’s length way from her at any given time. He took every chance he could to do her chores for her, to carry her things, to help her up from her chair and down the stairs no matter home much she protested.

Bobby had made a point of telling Bubba he was welcome to come to the movie tomorrow, just like he did whenever he and Nubbins made plans. But as was expected, he had turned him down with a string of mumbled excuses. Bubba had always been something of a shrinking violet, but Bobby was starting to get a little worried about him. What did he expect to do after Grandma and Grandpa passed away and he and Nubbins moved out?

His train of thought was disrupted by a tan station wagon with a dented fender peeling down the dirt road. It was headed directly towards the station. He jumped up from his stool and wiped the lenses of his sunglasses on his shirt as the car veered sharply towards the dirt parking lot and came to an abrupt halt in front of one of the pumps. The driver had parked at an angle, the back half of the station wagon practically touching the pump and the front half pointed at the station’s front door.

“Goddamn,” Bobby said under his breath. He didn’t often see someone who drove more recklessly than Drayton. Whoever was behind the wheel of this car undoubtedly had a death wish. He set his sunglasses on top of the Coke machine and combed his fingers through his hair as he approached the station wagon. The driver exited the car. He was a stocky man with coarse, cropped hair, sporting the thickest Coke-bottle glasses Bobby had ever seen. There were three other people in the car—one guy and two girls, by the looks of it. The passenger side window was rolled down. As he came closer to the car, he saw the guy in the passenger seat look over his shoulder at the girls.

“The fuck’s wrong with ‘is face?” He said, probably louder than he meant to. Bobby resisted his instinct to bring his hand to his face and touch his birthmark. One girl shoved his shoulder and the other scolded him in a harsh, frantic whisper.

“Lookin’ fer a fill-up?” Bobby asked the driver, stopping just in front of the passenger door. He glanced down, looking in the window at the three passengers. One of the girls—the one who had shoved the guy’s shoulder—caught his attention. Her face was round and freckled, framed by pale curls which fell to just above her shoulders. Her lashes were long and dark, and her eyes were light, though from this distance he couldn’t tell if they were blue or green. And the way she was leaning forward, he could see right down the front of her blue peasant top. Bobby locked eyes with her briefly and smiled. She smiled back, brushing a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah,” the driver said, “jus’ fill ‘er all the way.” Bobby clicked his tongue.

“‘s thirty cents a gallon,” he warned. He expected the driver to reconsider, but instead he just waved him off.

“No big deal. Got a li’l less’n half a tank, so I’m guessin’ it oughtta be ‘bout eight gallons” Bobby shrugged. He wondered what kind of job this kid had—or his parents had—that allowed him to be so carefree about the price of gas. He didn’t look much older than him. If he had to guess, he’d say he was twenty-one or twenty-two.

“A’ight, then…” he paused to calculate the total, “two-forty it is.” The driver walked around the front of the car, wrestling his wallet free from his back pocket. Bobby held out his hand and the driver counted out the change into his outstretched palm. He waited a beat after the last dime had been dropped into his hand. When he was given nothing more, he pocketed the money. When had it gone out of style to tip gas station attendants? He hadn’t gotten a tip from anyone except Vernon and Missus Ruth Adler in months.

“Wantcher windshield cleaned?”

“Sure.” Bobby pivoted on his heel, heading back towards his stool so he could retrieve the bucket of lukewarm water.

“If y’all’re hungry,” he called over his shoulder, “we got barbecue. Quality meat, ain’t nothin’ cheap ‘bout it. Or if ya want somethin’a drink, there’s the Coke machine.”

“Thanks, man,” the driver said with a lopsided smile, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Bobby picked up the bucket and turned around again, heading back towards the car. Everyone had climbed out now, except for the girl in the blue blouse. He peeked at her as he set the bucket down beside the front right tire. It looked like she was adjusting the neckline of her shirt. He circled around the front of the station wagon, making his way towards the pump as both guys and the other girl headed towards the station. The second girl, who had her long, dark hair tied up in a shiny pink ribbon, had her arm linked with the guy who’d been sitting in the passenger seat. He was wearing a ratty tank top and his shoulders were badly sunburnt and peeling.

Bobby flipped open the fuel door and reached for the gas cap. His hand froze momentarily as he heard one of the car doors open and shut. He looked up and made eye contact with the sandy-haired girl as she approached him, coming from around the back of the car. He watched her face as she stopped about an arm’s length away from him. Her eyes moved quickly—he wouldn’t have caught her if he hadn’t been looking right at her face—but she had been checking him out. Bobby smiled to himself and unscrewed the gas cap.

“Where’re y’all headed?” He asked casually.

“Austin,” she said, “we’re gonna see some local bands.” Her voice was clear. Sweet and confident. Bobby took the nozzle from the pump and fit it into the neck of the gas tank before looking back up at her. He let his gaze linger on her lips, which were full and pink and glossy, before meeting her eyes again. She had taken a step closer to him and he could see now that her eyes were neither blue nor green. They were a warm grey.

“Oh yeah?” he said brightly, “sounds like fun.” Bobby had only been to a few concerts, much to his chagrin. They were never local and always expensive. The girl shrugged, taking the sunflower shaped pendant on her necklace between her thumb and forefinger. She slid the little wooden flower up and down the leather strap of her necklace. His eyes flitted down to her chest, following the movement of her hand. Her knuckles were freckled, too, just like her face. And her collarbones.

“Could be,” she hummed, “or it could be a shitshow.” Bobby chuckled.

“‘s a win-win sit’ation in my book. If they’re good, you’ll have fun ‘n maybe getcherself some new songs t’enjoy. If it’s a drag, then ya c’n make a good story outta it.” He walked towards the front of the car again, leaving the nozzle to finish filling the tank. The girl followed him closely as he returned to the bucket he had left by the front tire. He took the rag out of the soapy water and wrung it out, beginning to scrub the windshield in a steady, circular motion. He could feel her eyes on him as he worked.

“Good point. I hadn’t thought’a that.” She cleared her throat. “See, the thing is, we’re mostly goin’ so we can see an acquaintance. An’ apparently she says her group’s a lot like The Shangri-Las.” He wet the rag again. He wasn’t surprised she had her reservations about the night, then. The Shangri-Las weren’t bad, but they weren’t at all interesting.

“Not up fer an extra-long rendition’a _Leader’a the Pack_ , eh?” He said teasingly, shooting the girl a little smile. She laughed, and Bobby felt his heart skip. It was the cutest little giggle he’d ever heard.

“No, thank you! _Remember_ is pretty alright, but most’a their stuff is sorta…” she held out a hand and tilted it side to side in a “so-so” gesture, “y’know, middle’a the road.” Bobby straightened up.

“Yeah, yeah, exactly—” he said, unable to keep excitement from creeping into his voice, “s-so I tak it yer inta music?” He tilted his head, letting his hair fall away from his eyes. She bit her lip.

“Oh, _hell_ yeah,” she told him emphatically, “there’s nothin’ else like it. I love a good movie or book, don’t get me wrong, but music’s on another level.” He nodded, dropping the rag back into the bucket. The windshield was acceptably clean, completely devoid of bug guts. Now his heartbeat had really started to pick up. It wasn’t every day he met someone he could talk music with—most everyone he knew liked music well enough, sure, but oftentimes when he tried to talk with someone about it, he ended up having a mostly one-sided conversation.

“I hear that,” Bobby said, drying off his palms on his jeans. “Drayton in there,” he nodded towards the station, “he’s a real hardass, but ‘specially ‘bout music. When I’m inside, I spend most’a my time fightin’ with him o’er the radio.” She leaned against the passenger door of the station wagon, watching him as he returned to the pump and removed the nozzle from the gas tank. He hung it up, then replaced the gas cap and closed the fuel door.

“Sounds like Pete,” she sighed. Bobby rejoined her on the other side of the car, leaning his back against it as well. Less than a foot of space was between them now. If either of them moved, they could brush up against each other.

“He Wife Beater or Specs?” Bobby asked, assuming one of the two guys she came with must be Pete and hoping he wasn’t her boyfriend. She brought her hand to her mouth to hide her smile.

“Pete’s the one in the wife beater,” she answered, “Ernie’s got the glasses. But Pete was throwin’ a fit ‘cause the rest’a us wanted to hear _House of the Risin’ Sun_. He said it’s whiny,” she wrinkled her button nose and Bobby clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“Shit, I would’a told ‘im he could walk the rest’a the way ta Austin.” The girl laughed again, reaching out and playfully pushing his shoulder.

“If it were _my_ car,” she said, grinning up at him, “I woulda told ‘im to walk on back home!” Bobby whistled.

“Remind me ne’er ta piss you off.”

“You better not,” she said brightly, pale eyes glittering with mischief, “I could kick anyone’s ass if I wanted.”

“I believe it,” he hummed, smiling back down at her. God, was she cute. He hoped her friends wouldn’t come back outside any time soon. He could stand out here talking with her all night long, easy.

“Good thing fer Pete Bonnie was there an’ it wasn’t my car—or my radio.” She groaned softly, lifting her arms slowly above her head. Bobby couldn’t help but watch the way her breasts rose with her arms as she stretched. She held the pose for a moment, arms high over her head, fingers interlocked, the beads and bangles around her wrist sparkling in the fading sunlight. She made a small, satisfied noise and put her hands on her hips, shifting her weight to one leg.

“You must meet lotsa interestin’ people workin’ at a gas station,” she said, brushing her bangs away from her eyes. He noticed her nails were painted powder blue. He glanced down at his own fingernails—he had painted them a few weeks ago. Only a few patches of flaky indigo remained on their surface.

“If ya mean today, then sure,” he answered, pushing his hair behind his ears. She swiped her tongue over her bottom lip.

“Aw, c’mon,” she waved her hand, “I betcha talk to plenty’a folks more excitin’n me.” Bobby shook his head.

“Nope. Mostly we get people headed ta or comin’ from the slaughterhouse back thataway,” he pointed down the road, “choice girls wi’ good taste in music ain’t our usual clientele.” Her cheeks flushed a rosy pink and she looked down at her feet, fighting a smile as she spun a bracelet around her wrist. 

“You’re gonna gimme a swelled head,” she said softly, her voice hitching a little. He gently nudged her side with his elbow.

“Jus’ sayin’ what’s true, Sweetheart.” He paused. “You want somethin’? If barbecue ain’t yer thing, there’s a couple’a snacks in there.” She tilted her head slightly, seeming to consider his offer. Half of him hoped she’d say no and stay out here with him. The other half hoped she’d suggest ditching her friends and going for dinner. He desperately wanted to ask her out—he’d spent all of ten minutes with her, and he was giddy. He felt a little stupid, even—silly and fuzzy-headed. But he couldn’t make a move. This girl was beautiful, with her bouncy curls and gentle face and curvy figure. And she was so friendly—she _had_ to have a boyfriend.

“Oh,” she said, sounding slightly hesitant, “I’m sure there’ll be somethin’ to eat at the venue.” Bobby sighed through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck.

“C’mon,” he said, moving away from the car and waving her after him. She obeyed, stepping up to him. When she was beside her, he gently placed his hand against the small of her back. He started to pull away when he felt her tense, but then she relaxed and even moved a little closer to him. He held his breath, maintaining a gentle pressure on her back as he led her to the front of the station, stopping in front of the Coke machine. He pulled his hand away, letting his fingertips graze her back and side. He thought he felt her shiver, though he couldn’t be sure.

Bobby pulled his key ring from his pocket, flipping through the random assortment of keys until he found the one that unlocked the machine. He didn’t make a habit of nicking Cokes. He wasn’t interested in potentially getting caught and consequently receiving a tongue-lashing from Drayton. But he could make an exception just this once. He wanted to do something for her, even if it was something as small as giving her a free soda.

He leaned to one side, looking in the window. Drayton wasn’t behind the counter. He was walking towards it with the girl’s friends following behind him. The one with the terrible sunburn and wearing the tank top, Pete, was holding a large white bag. Bobby returned his attention to the Coke machine, swiftly unlocking it and swiping a soda. He closed it back up and popped off the cap with the bottle opener attached to his key chain.

“‘ere ya go,” he held out the bottle to her and she took it, her fingers brushing against his. She held the bottle in both hands, close to her chest. She glanced in the window, too, then looked at Bobby again.

“Wontcha get in trouble?’ She asked in a hushed tone. He shrugged.

“What Drayton don’t know won’t kill ‘im. ‘sides,” he leaned in a little closer, resting his forearm against the top of the machine. He tapped his fingers against the metal surface, “pretty li’l thing like you deserves somethin’ sweet. Dontcha think?”

“You got a name, Cowboy?” She asked him a little breathlessly. He didn’t miss the way her gaze drifted from his eyes to his mouth.

“Bobby. How ‘bout you, Princess?”

“Maisie.” What a sunny name.

“‘s nice. Suits ya.”

“Thank you.” Maisie swiped a stripe of condensation from the neck of her bottle, then parted her lips as if she were going to say something. He didn’t dare hope she’d ask him to join her tonight or anything like that. He didn’t expect much out of his on-the-job flirtations. They were fun, but they never went anywhere. The girls he met while working had places to be. They forgot about him as soon as the gas station vanished from rearview mirror. He wanted it to be different this time—but he couldn’t set himself up for disappointment.

“Maisie!” The door swung open, and Bobby and Maisie both jumped as her friends filed out of the building. It had been the other girl—Bonnie—who had called out to her. “You ready?” She blinked rapidly, rolling her bottle between her palms.

“S-sure, I’m comin’,” she stuttered. Maisie watched her friends for a moment, then looked at Bobby once more. She blew her bangs out of her eyes. “Hey,” she said softly, “come with me a sec.” He tensed in surprise as she took hold of his hand and began to pull him gently towards the car. Her hand was small in his, cool and soft. He squeezed it instinctively, and his heartrate skyrocketed when she squeezed his back. Once they reached the station wagon, she released his hand. She opened the back-passenger side door and carefully set her soda on the floor before digging through her purse, muttering under her breath. A few moments passed and Maisie straightened up, turning around to face Bobby.

“Here,” she took his wrist and flipped his hand over, so his palm faced the sky. He laughed nervously, tugging on one of his beaded necklaces as she began writing on his skin.

“You, uh, you do this fer e’ery guy who pumps yer gas?” She looked into his eyes.

“Just the cute ones.” Bobby felt his cheeks burn. “Call me?” He couldn’t believe his luck!

“You—I—fer real?” He groaned internally. He’d always been comfortable around girls—he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him this flustered. Maisie laughed.

“Yeah, fer real!” She picked up her soda and began climbing into the car. She paused, fixing him with wide, hopeful eyes. “Call me, Bobby. Please?”

“Maisie, let’s go!” Pete barked.

“Keep your shirt on, Pete!” Bonnie snapped. Bobby ignored them both, keeping his gaze fixed on Maisie as she settled into her seat.

“I will,” his voice caught in his throat. He swallowed. “Next time I c’n get ahold’a a phone. I promise.” He traced an ‘x’ over his heart with a forefinger. She smiled down at her lap.

“Thanks fer the soda. Talk to ya soon?" He nodded.

“Ya sure will.” Maisie shut the door and waved to Bobby through the window. He waved back, taking a step away from the station wagon as Ernie stepped on the gas and roared away from the pumps. He watched the tan car swerve down the road, kicking up an enormous dust cloud in its wake. When he could no longer see the station wagon, he looked at his hand. Her print was small and neat, the number written on his hand almost looking like a typeface.

Bobby fished his keys out of his pocket again, walking quickly around the back of the gas station. When he reached his truck, he unlocked the door and ducked inside. He knew he had a pen in there somewhere, and napkins and receipts if not proper paper. He wanted to make sure he had Maisie’s number down on paper in case he accidentally sweat or washed it off his hand. He scooted across the bench seat to the passenger side, and unlocked the glove box, hoping that he had what he needed in there. He did—Bobby found a Sharpie and a receipt from 7/11.

He smoothed the wrinkled paper out and laid it on the dashboard, gingerly copying the number on his palm onto the back of the receipt. Thankfully, she had written it on his right palm rather than his left, so he wouldn’t have to worry about trying to decipher any scrawlings made by his nondominant hand.

Bobby capped the marker and tossed it back into the glove box. He held the receipt carefully, practically cradling it as he looked down at Maisie’s number. He wouldn’t be able to call her before Monday. She wouldn’t be home tonight, he wouldn’t have time tomorrow, and he couldn’t step out to call her on Sunday. He never called girls from the home phone—no privacy. Monday it was, then.

Bobby had never been more excited for a weekend to be over in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I love Maisie and I hope you all come to like her, too. I know Canon x OC ships are controversial, but honestly I can't imagine Chop Top not having had at least one long-term partner in his past. Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter!!! Student teaching is EXHAUSTING (and exciting), but I intend to keep updating as regularly as possible! Thanks for reading <3


	4. The House of the Rising Sun

This Saturday was just like every other Saturday.

At six in the morning, Drayton pounded on the door of the twins’ bedroom, startling Nubbins out of a dreamless sleep. He scrambled out of bed seconds later, tripping as his feet became caught and tangled in his top sheet, which hung halfway off his bed. Bobby stayed in his own bed, blinking blearily up at the ceiling, and picking absently at a scab on his elbow. He had still been laying there by the time Nubbins stumbled down the stairs. Bobby had probably been awake for at least an hour—he’d been a restless sleeper for as long as Nubbins could remember—but he always took his time getting up and out of bed. Twenty minutes passed before he shambled into the dining room, after everyone else was well into their breakfast.

After breakfast came chores. It had been Nubbins’s day to muck out the pigsty. They had a single boar and sow, both around three years old. Breeding season was just over a month away, and hopefully come February they would have a litter of piglets which would make up most of their meals in the summer. The sow had maybe five or six more seasons in her, and the boar likely didn’t have much more than that.

It could be a little tedious at times to refer to the pigs as “the boar” and “the sow,” but Bubba couldn’t eat any animals with names. Once when he and the twins were kids, they’d had a chicken Grandma called “Henrietta”. She stopped laying when she was about two but lived another six years because Bubba had cried and begged Grandpa not to kill her. A no-names rule had been instituted after that, and so far, there had been no more tears shed for animals who weren’t useful for anything but meat.

After taking care of the pigs, Nubbins wiped down the bathroom, helped Bubba fill the generator, and helped Bobby straighten their bedroom. Everyone had finished their chores by noon and had a lunch of dry ham sandwiches and sweet tea. Bobby had gone back upstairs to take a nap after he was finished eating.

Nubbins and Bubba sat at the dining room table while Grandma and Grandpa sat in the living room. Grandma working on her embroidery while Grandpa listened to the news on the radio. Bubba spent a little time sewing up holes in his winter clothes, before moving on to braiding strips of leather into bracelets. Nubbins worked on a bracelet of his own.

He wasn’t quite as fond of accessories as either Bubba or Bobby, but last week he had swiped a few sections of pig vertebrae from the slaughterhouse. They were clean and dry enough now that he could string them together. Once he had tied the ends of the wire together, he slipped the bracelet over his right wrist. The bones made a fun little clacking sound every time he moved his arm. With his bracelet finished, Nubbins decided to retrieve a pen from a kitchen drawer and fish his polaroids from the past two months out of his knapsack—but when he went to write the dates, he couldn’t remember which he took when. He penned his best guess on the back of each photo.

Eventually, he went up to his and Bobby’s room, flinging the door open without knocking. The sound of the doorknob hitting the wall earned a complaint from Grandpa downstairs. Bobby jumped, dropping the book he’d been reading on his chest.

“Jesus, man,” he gasped, picking up the book again and flipping through to find his page, “ya scared the shit outta me.”

“Sorry.” Nubbins sat on the edge of his bed. “Whatcha r-readin’?”

“Uh, ‘s called _Flowers fer Algernon_. Kathy lent it ta me.” C.J.’s little sister Kathleen lived on nothing but paperbacks and root beer. Half the time they saw C.J., he had a book for Bobby on Kathy’s recommendation. He looked like he was about three-quarters of the way through—he read faster than anyone else in the house, but he wouldn’t be finished before they went out tonight. Kathy would likely have to wait a few more weeks before she got her book back.

“H-how is it?”

“Really fuckin’ sad. Can’t remember the last time I was this depressed. ‘s good, though.” He shifted on his bed. “Lemme finish this chapter, huh?”

“Sure.” Nubbins flopped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the Beatles record Bobby had put on. He spun his new bracelet around his skinny wrist and let his mind wander. Nubbins had noticed a dark smear on Bobby's palm last night when he had come to pick him and Bubba up from work. It looked like an ink stain. He hadn’t given it much thought at first—it was probably a phone number. Bobby spent a lot of his time talking to girls. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to come home with a number on his hand or a lipstick smudge on his neck.

Nubbins had never been on a date, but he’d had one kiss. He knew this was something that would’ve bothered other guys his age, but he barely thought about it. The way he saw it, if he met someone, he met someone, and if he didn’t, he didn’t. He had plenty of ways to occupy his time without a steady, and he didn’t mind doing things alone at all—in fact, he preferred it. And if he ever felt lonely and wanted to hang out with somebody, he had his brothers (or sometimes Leigh). But Bobby was different. Nubbins’s thoughts were disrupted by the distant sound of the front door opening and closing, followed shortly by Bobby sighing loudly and clapping his book shut.

“How much time we got?” He asked.

“Dep-depends on how long yer g-gonna—gonna take ta get ready,’ Nubbins said, combing his fingers through his oily hair. Bobby clicked his tongue.

“Eh, five, ten minutes, tops.”

“Then fifteen, twenty minutes, m-maybe?” Bobby reached over to his nightstand and groped around until he found his wristwatch.

“Fifteen sounds right.” He dropped his watch back onto the cluttered end table. “You oughtta shower, Gramma’s gonna give ya shit.” Nubbins scoffed.

“She ne’er gives _you_ a h-hard time ‘bout w-washin’.”

“That’s ‘cause I shower more’n once a month.” He grinned and ducked to avoid the balled-up sock Nubbins lobbed at him. “It wouldn’t kill ya ta at least stick yer head under the sink ‘fore we go back downstairs.”

“It ain’t li-like we’re goin’ anyplace—anyplace f-fa-fancy,” Nubbins groaned, “we’re only seein’ Leigh ‘n C.J..” Bobby shrugged.

“You don’t gotta defend yerself ta me. All I’m sayin’ ‘s she’s gonna give ya a hard time.” Nubbins knew he was right—Grandma was very concerned with the cleanliness of her grandchildren. But he also knew that Bobby would tell him when he stank too bad to keep getting away with not bathing, and he would clean himself up when that happened. There were better ways to spend his free time than showering.

“So, you know anythin’ ‘bout the m-mo-movie we’re seein’?” Nubbins asked, deciding to change the subject. He’d asked Leigh probably six or seven times to remind him what the movie was called, but he still couldn’t remember it. Bobby had finally asked Leigh the title himself when he got to the slaughterhouse yesterday evening.

“A little,” Bobby said, sitting up and slipping his paperback into the nightstand’s drawer, “’s Asian—Japanese, I think? An’ part’a a series.”

“A series?”

“Yeah, I think there’s, like, four or five of ‘em countin’ this’un.” Bobby put on his watch on, then a beaded bracelet Bubba had made him for his birthday. “I saw one of ‘em when I was goin’ out with Suzanne—it was a monster double feature at a drive-in.” Nubbins sat up now too, tapping his socked feet against the floor.

“W-was it any g-g-good?” Bobby got to his feet, bracing his hands on his lower back as he stretched. Nubbins heard his back pop.

“Yeah, I think so—” he yawned— “but I remember the other one we saw that night better.” He walked over to the closet and began moving shirts and jackets around. “ _Them!_ , the one with the giant ants.”

“Oh yeah, I s-saw that’un on TV once.” Nubbins scooched to the foot of his bed and shoved his feet into the ratty old sneakers he’d left on the floor. “I’ll m-meetcha d-downstairs,” he told Bobby as he stood.

“Kay. I still say you oughtta rinse an’ dry yer hair fer Gramma’s sake.” Nubbins waved off his comment, heading for the door. He paused briefly at the dresser, considering grabbing his camera, but quickly decided against it. There wasn’t much to take pictures of in a movie theater. Nubbins left the bedroom and went down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He bounded into the living room, stopping in the entryway and rocking on the balls of his feet.

“Y’all goin’ out soon?” Grandma asked from her chair. Bubba was standing behind her, carefully working her hair into a braid.

“Yes’m.”

“You oughtta wash ‘fore ya go out,” Grandma sighed, turning her attention away from Nubbins and looking back at the ratty old Bible in her lap. About once every other year, Grandma decided she was going to read the book cover to cover. She never seemed to get very far. “Might wanna consider shavin’, too.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“We’re jus’ m-m-meetin’ Leigh ‘n C.J., Gramma, I d-don’t gotta—gotta get all gussied up fer them.” Bubba tied a dusty-blue ribbon around the end of Grandma’s braid, then patted her shoulder with a satisfied squawk. She smiled and reached up, giving his fingers a light squeeze before closing the Bible and setting it on the end table beside her.

“It’s good ta be in the habit’a cleanin’ yerself up ‘fore ya go out with friends,” Grandma said, bracing her hands on the arms of her chair as she pushed herself to her feet, “ya ne’er know—” all color suddenly drained from Grandma’s face and her knees buckled.

“Jesus!” Nubbins darted forward as Bubba tripped over the chair in an attempt to catch her. Neither of them caught her in time, and she landed heavily on her hands and knees with a gasp.

“ _Gramma, Gramma,_ ” Bubba cried as he and Nubbins each took one of her arms and helped her to her feet, “ _are you okay?_ ” Grandpa and Drayton raced in from the kitchen, Drayton gripping a wooden spoon still dripping with broth.

“Addie, e’erythin’ alright?” Grandpa asked, his face pale and eyes wide.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, wrenching her arms free from Bubba and Nubbins’s grip and letting herself fall back into her chair.

“Gramma—” Drayton started. Grandma held up a hand to stop him.

“I know, I know,” she huffed. She shook her head, then began again. “I’m sorry, boys,” her voice was softer now. She closed her eyes and began gently rubbing her temples. “I shouldn’t be losin’ my temper witcha. But I’m fine, right as rain. Jus’ a li’l tumble.” She opened her eyes again, fixing her pale blue gaze on Nubbins. “Ya don’t gotta wash yer hair. But you better be back by midnight.” She paused, then called out, “y’hear me, Bobby?”

“Yes’m, I hear ya,” Bobby called back. It sounded like he had just come down the stairs. He poked his head into the living room, his face falling as he looked at everyone gathered around Grandma. “E’erythin’ okay?” He asked tentatively. Nubbins started to tell him that Grandma had fallen again, but she cut in before he could say anything.

“Yes, e’erythin’s fine. Now you two oughtta git, shows don’t wait fer stragglers.” Bobby looked at Nubbins, who did nothing but shrug.

“Dunno why ya let ‘em stay out so late,” Drayton grumbled, crossing his arms, “yer gonna be fightin’ ‘em ta get up in the mornin’.”

“You worry ‘bout yerself, Drayton,” Grandma said curtly.

“Why dontcha e’er go out on weekends?” Grandpa nudged Drayton in the ribs with his elbow, apparently deciding it was time to start up the argument they had whenever the twins went out. “You oughtta getcher friends together fer a beer.”

“I’m too busy fer that kinda nonsense.” Drayton turned on his heel and stormed back into the kitchen.

“Right, well, we’re gonna head out,” Bobby said, tossing Nubbins a thin grey jacket. He caught it and pulled it on as he followed his brother to the front door. “See ya later!”

“Have fun, boys, an’ be safe.”

“ _Bye!_ ”

“Bubba, why ain’tcha goin’?” Bobby and Nubbins stepped out the door before they could hear Bubba's excuse. Grandpa was fighting a losing battle with him and Drayton. Nubbins wasn’t even sure Drayton had any friends to hang out with, except maybe Vernon.

“D-does Grampa, uh—does he really th-think Drayton’s e’er gonna go fer a beer with anybody?” He asked, opening the passenger door to the truck. Bobby snorted, climbing into the cab, and closing the door behind him.

“Dunno,” he said, putting the key into the ignition, “I’m surprised Vern still tries ta talk ta him—he’s barely got two words ta say ta the guy.” Bobby switched on the radio and began fiddling with the stations before finally settling on one playing a Rolling Stones song. “He’s been up in my shit all week,” he complained, backing out of his spot, and turning onto the dirt driveway.

“Yeah, you b-been sayin’. He e’er n-not up in yer shit?”  
“Fuck no!” Bobby threw up one hand, keeping the other on the wheel as he approached the end of the drive. “All he e’er does is bitch,” he turned left onto the street, “y’know he’s pissed at _me_ fer not gettin’ tips?” Nubbins rolled his eyes and scratched his chin.

“H-h-how’s that _yer_ fault?”

“That’s what I wanna know—people’re fuckin stingy, man, I do my job damn well an’ I’m polite as hell! Vern an’ Missus Adler’re the only ones who gimme jackshit anymore.” Bobby shook his head and let out an exasperated growl. “Anyway, since he caught me chattin’ up those girls Tuesday, he’s been watchin’ me like a goddamn hawk.” He paused for a moment, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Then he glanced at Nubbins and smirked. “He’s pro’ly jus’ pissed he ain’t gettin’ any.”

“C’n you im-imagine the type’a w-woman who’d w-wanna h-hoo-hook up with Drayton?” Nubbins made an exaggerated retching sound and Bobby snickered.

“Thank God she pro’ly don’t exist.” The twins shared a laugh. A moment of silence between them was filled by _It’s All Over Now_ fading out and _Anyone Who Had A Heart_ fading in in its place. “You think it’s weird Bubba don’t come anyplace with us anymore?” Bobby asked suddenly.

“Naw,” Nubbins pushed a few loose strands of hair behind his ear, watching a bat flutter awkwardly across the red sky, “he ain’t like us, he don’t get itchy feet.”

“I know that. ‘s jus’—he don’t e’en wanna come down ta the Sev fer a slurpee or nothin’. Dontcha think that’s weird?” He shrugged.

“I g-guess so.” As far as Nubbins was concerned, it wasn’t all _that_ weird. Bubba got into moods where he didn’t leave the property except to go to work or run errands for weeks at a time. And it wasn’t like he’d ever come with them to meet their friends.

“Think it’s ‘cause’a Gramma? Since she’s been…” Bobby cleared his throat. “Y’know.” Nubbins shifted awkwardly in his seat, tugging on the seat belt he hadn’t bothered to put on.

“Maybe.” Now that he thought about it, Bobby might be on to something. Bubba hadn’t come with them on any drives or little trips into town since the spring, and that’s when Grandma started getting dizzy. “She fell jus’ ‘fore ya c-ca-came downstairs.” Bobby grimaced, squeezing the steering wheel.

“She barely finished ‘er dinner last night.”

“Didn’t notice.”

“She ain’t been eatin’ much all week,” he said with a little more urgency.

“She’ll b-be alright.” There was another long pause between them. Nubbins didn’t want to think about how much or how little Grandma was eating. Whatever was going on with her, she’d get over it. He didn’t have any reason to believe she wouldn’t—he had never seen Grandma get sick once in his life. He shouldn’t have said anything about her falling again. Nubbins watched the sun sink lower in the sky, tuning out the DJ on the radio jabbering about a Beatles concert in Kansas. He thought about asking about the ink stain he’d had on his palm yesterday, but before he could, Bobby spoke up.

“Where’d ya get the bones fer that bracelet?” Nubbins smiled, holding up his arm and flicking his wrist so the bracelet spun around it.

“Slaughterhouse,” he answered brightly, “p-pig vertebrae.”

“‘s bitchin,” Bobby shot Nubbins a small grin, “no one say anythin’ bout ya swipin’ bones?” He shook his head, lowering his arm to rest his hand in his lap.

“Nobody saw ‘cept Leigh, an’ he don’t care.” Nubbins fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his legs at the ankle. “I w-wanna bring m-my camera in sometime, get a f-few sn-snaphots’a cows with their faces—faces p-pee-peeled back.” He stretched out his right hand and drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “Looks real cool sometimes. Only thing is, it’s h-hard ta hide a camera.” Bobby shrugged, clicking his tongue.

“You’ll figure out how ta make it happen—oh shit,” he interrupted himself, reaching for the volume knob on the radio and cranking the music up, “this is a great song.” _You Really Got Me_ blasted through the radio speakers, and the twins spent the remaining ten minutes of the drive simply enjoying the music rather than carrying on the conversation. Finally, they pulled into the cramped parking lot of the sad old movie theater C.J. always insisted they go to. Bobby turned down the radio, looking for a spot as the truck crawled along the length of the lot.

“O’er there—” Nubbins pointed to an empty space next to a grey car, which two boys their age were leaning against, “see C.J.’s Chr-Chrysler?” He nodded and pulled into the spot. The boys looked up, and Nubbins saw Leigh’s mouth move as he greeted them but couldn’t hear what he was saying with the doors and windows shut. The twins climbed out of the truck.

“Evenin’, boys,” Bobby crowed, waving to Leigh and C.J..

“Hey!” C.J. exclaimed, practically jumping up and down as he tried and failed to push his shaggy blonde hair out of his eyes, “Fuck, you oughtta hear what Leigh’s been tellin’ me.” Leigh rubbed the back of his thick neck, dark eyes flitting nervously between C.J. and Nubbins.

“Shit, man, they pro’ly already know.”

“Know what?” Bobby tilted his head, putting his hands on his hips. Leigh shuffled his feet.

“Y’hear ‘bout George Adler?” The twins exchanged a glance.

“Nothin’ recent.”

“I heard he ain’t doin’ too hot,” Leigh wrung his pink hands and shifted his weight from foot to foot, “an’ y’all know how Cliff’s always goin’ on ‘bout those gun things, the uh—the uh—uh...”

“The cap-captive bolts,” Nubbins said. Leigh nodded once, pointing at Nubbins.

“Yeah, yeah, the captive bolt guns! Well, Williams told me Cliff’s been talkin’ ‘bout makin’ the switch soon as his daddy’s too sick ta stop ‘im.” Bobby sighed through his nose.

“How sick is he?”

“Not sick enough fer Cliff’s likin’, I reckon,” Leigh said darkly.

“Aw, I ain’t worried ‘bout Cliff,” Nubbins declared, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. Bobby, Leigh, and C.J. all looked at him with surprise.

“Y’ain’t?” C.J. squeaked. He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Y’ain’t? How come?”

“He don’t like you ‘n Bubba much,” Leigh added. Nubbins waved him off.

“He don’t like anybody. ‘sides, George ‘n Grampa g-get on r-real—real well, uh,” he looked sideways at Bobby, “d-don’t they?”

“‘s what Grampa always says,” He replied.

“See?” Nubbins said, “so l-long ’s one of ‘em’s livin’, I-I-I don’t th-think me ‘n Bubba got anythin’ ta w-worry ‘bout.”

“If ya say so,” Leigh combed his fingers through his white-blonde hair. He didn’t sound like he fully believed Nubbins, but he didn’t say anything more about Cliff and George. Instead, he looked at the cracked face of his watch. “Show starts in ten, we oughtta go on in.”

“Bobby,” C.J. chirped, jogging slightly to keep up with everyone else’s longer strides, “you finish that book Kathy gave ya yet?”

“Almost. I’ll have it fer ya next time—tell ‘er sorry for me.”

“Sure, sure,” they walked up to the box office, “no problem. ‘s jus’ she’s already got another one she thinks you’ll like,” C.J. let out a wheezy laugh, “I think she’s got a li’l crush on ya.” Bobby frowned, fishing his wallet out of his pocket as they stopped in ticket line.

“Don’t give ‘er any ideas, man. We’re friendly s’all. An’ she’s, what, fifteen?”

“Sixteen,” C.J. corrected.

“Sixteen’s still a kid,” Bobby said sternly. Leigh cut in then, quickly changing the subject to who had been on _The Tonight Show_ that week and giving a detailed summary of everything that had happened. He only stopped long enough to buy his ticket, then started up again while Bobby, Nubbins, and C.J. bought their tickets. He was still going when the group headed into the theater to see _Mothra vs. Godzilla._

It was pretty good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely my favorite chapter I've written so far, it took me about twenty thousand years but I'm so happy with how it turned out :D Nubbins and Drayton are the hardest for me to write, but I'm pretty confident in this chapter.   
> And no, I haven't actually seen Mothra vs. Godzilla. Most of the movies/shows I (will) reference in this fic I've seen, but in this case, I was going based on movies from 1964 that got good reviews and would appeal to a group of nineteen year old boys.  
> Also, if you haven't read Flowers for Algernon, I HIGHLY recommend it, it's soul-crushing!

**Author's Note:**

> People Are Strange (PAS) Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2zVMk6CUAtVCDyoydtyObj?si=LDN7YjhiRAO1UGnSnKIb-w
> 
> General TCM Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7xCqvmUbfII2O9GazwqpCV?si=5OHIXVmMQgSuIHBRuITJPA


End file.
